The well hyped convergence of Thanksgiving and Chanukah is now history. We'll never see the two holidays come together in this way again. What did we learn? Here are some thoughts:

1) It usually takes me a week to work off the weight I gain over Thanksgiving and a week or two to work off the latkes and sour cream of Chanukah. I am not making any predictions about how long I'll be recovering from a combined orgy of sweet potatoes, sufganiyot, cranberry sauce and chocolate gelt. This could take a while.

2) For all the many words that have been written by myself and others about the things that Thanksgiving and Chanukah have in common, one thing emerges as the central truth: Family brings us together. It's not turkey, it's not the latkes, it's not the candles, and it's not watching football that people love about these two holidays. Chanukah and Thanksgiving each hold a place in our hearts because they are holidays that bring us together with family near and far.

3) Like most American Jews, my extended family includes Jews and non-Jews. We all get together every year for a Thanksgiving celebration that is warm and joyful, but without much ritual or overt spirituality. I think that all of us — Jews and non-Jews — found something meaningful in lighting the Chanukah menorah together as a moment of intentional reflection on our blessings and the miracles in our lives. Even if we never celebrate Chanukah at Thanksgiving again, I hope our experience this year will bring greater spirituality for all of us to our Thanksgiving gatherings in the future.

4) In the end, the hype did not really matter. All of those creative recipes for pumpkin challah, sweet potato latkes, and sufganiyot filled with cranberry sauce, did not transform either holiday into something new. The turkey menorahs were cute, but they will just join the many Chanukah menorahs already on the shelf that our kids made in Sunday school or that we got as wedding gifts from forgotten relatives. "Thanksgivukkah" was the Jewish Y2K — a calendrical oddity that will soon be forgotten.

5) There are four candles (plus the shamash) burning on my menorah right now, and they look lovely. In past years, we never let the gaudy glare of Christmas diminish their glow. This year, Black Friday didn't distract us, either. These lights are meant for gazing upon, remembering and praising the Source of our blessings. That is the same this year as it is every year. We will have four more nights of it this week. Make the most of them!

I ran this morning in the Concord Turkey Trot. I can't brag about my time, but my cousin Bonnie had the best time for a woman over forty. (Yay, Bonnie!!).

I had a lot of fun running. This was my third time participating in this annual Thanksgiving tradition. It was my first time, though, running with a Chanukah menorah hat on my head. Over the past two years, I had seen plenty of people running the race with turkey hats and other Thanksgiving-themed costumes. I thought, this year, it is Chanukah's turn.

The hat got a lot of comments. I heard plenty of "Happy Chanukah!" "Great hat!" and "Where'd you get that?" (The true and ironic answer to that question is here.)

It would be a stretch to say that running through the streets of a New England town with a funny hat on my head is a holy act. I will say though, that it felt like I was doing a small part to fulfill the central mitzvah of Chanukah. From a traditional perspective, the reason for lighting a Chanukah menorah is pirsum ha-nes, to "make known the miracle" (B. Shabbat 21a-24a). This is why a lit Chanukah menorah ideally should be placed in a window where it can be seen by the public. For each person who smiled at my silly hat, I felt that I was helping to remind people of Chanukah, a minor holiday that celebrates God's power to change a defeat into a victory, darkness into light, and despair into hope.

Why was publicizing the miracle of Chanukah so important to the ancient rabbis? In large measure, it was because they recognized that they were living at a time when Judaism was in fierce competition with other beliefs and philosophies. In ancient Babylon and the ancient land of Israel, Jews were in competition with Christians who taught that the holiness of the Temple had been broken and replaced. Gnosticism rejected the idea of a single creator God who is the only deity. The rabbis used the public display of lit menorahs at the darkest time of year as a powerful form of advertising for the unique God who brought a miracle to affirm the Temple's holiness and who ruled the universe alone.

We also are living in a time of competition for the hearts and minds of today's Jews, although the terms of the competition have changed. For Jews who believe that religion is nothing more than a grandiose superstition, or who believe that the synagogue is a place of stuffy and meaningless rituals, we have a lot of public relations work to do. "Making known the miracle" today may mean presenting an image of Judaism that is meaningful, spiritual, fun and joyful. We need to publicize a Judaism that helps people grapple with the most difficult challenges of their lives and that helps them discover their own greatest happiness and fulfillment in life.

Does wearing a silly hat help in that publicity campaign? Maybe a little. In any case, it is a gentle reminder that there are plenty of folks in the world today who are proud to be Jews, who think that Judaism is far from a stuffy and meaningless aspect of their identity. It is a way of making known that being Jewish, and loving Judaism, feels great.

You must know by now that this year, for only the second time ever, the first day of Chanukah will fall on the American holiday of Thanksgiving. You also may have heard that this will not happen again for tens of thousands of years. (More on that misconception below).

I am resisting the temptation to merge these two holidays into a single hybrid with a name that is a registered trademark. Chanukah and Thanksgiving are separate holidays, but they do have some things to teach each other.

Chanukah commemorates a miracle. In the second century BCE, the Maccabees defeated the Seleucid Empire to regain Jewish sovereignty over the Land of Israel. At the end of the war, they needed to dedicate the Temple in Jerusalem to the God of Israel, which included rekindling the great seven-branched Temple Menorah. However, they found only a single cruse of sanctified oil to light the Menorah — enough to burn for only a single day. Yet, when the Maccabees lit the Menorah, the oil lasted for eight days, long enough to press new oil under the supervision of the Priests.

There is a question, then, about the first day of the holiday. What was the miracle of the first day? It hardly counts as a miracle if a cruse of oil, expected to burn for one day, burns for one day. Right? Why do we light a candle on the first day of Chanukah to praise a miracle that occurred on that day? What miracle?

Perhaps the miracle is that the Maccabees lit then Menorah at all. They certainly could have waited until they had more oil. But they did not. What insight caused the Maccabees to light the Menorah, even though they knew that it would take an act of God to sustain it?

Here's a way to think of it. The Maccabees spent years fighting the Seleucid Empire. They had pitted sword against sword and suffered terrible losses. When they won, they had every reason to believe that their victory was the result of their own cunning, bravery and personal sacrifice. Yet, the Maccabees recognized that the victory belonged to God, not to themselves.

This is what gave the Maccabees the confidence to light the Menorah with only a day's worth of oil. They knew that the rededication of the Temple was won "Not by might and not by power but by [God's] spirit" (Zechariah 4:6). They never lost awareness that it was God who had sustained them through the war and that God would continue to sustain them.

And this, too, is what we celebrate on Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving is the most spiritual and universal of all American holidays. It is a day to recognize that there is something beyond ourselves that we must thank. On this day, we remember that it is not just by our own sweat and effort that we have received the bounty and riches that we enjoy in life. We give thanks on Thanksgiving for the very same reason the Maccabees lit the Menorah. We recognize that we are blessed by something beyond ourselves.

We do have some good reason to celebrate these two holidays together, if only as a once-in-a-lifetime event. And, now, it appears, for the very last time ever.

Since 1941, the United States has fixed Thanksgiving as the fourth Thursday in November, making this year's observance, on November 28, the latest possible date for the holiday. This year, the first day of Chanukah falls on its earliest possible date on the Gregorian calendar, November 28. However, this is the last century in which Chanukah can land as early as November 28.

The Hebrew calendar is slightly out of skew with the Gregorian calendar. With the passage of time, Hebrew dates move forward on the Gregorian calendar by an average of three-quarters of a day per century. By the end of the 21st century, this shift will make November 29 the earliest possible Gregorian date on which Chanukah can land. This year will be the last time the holidays will ever converge.

You may have heard some people say that the holidays will come back together in tens of thousands of years, after the inconsistency of the Hebrew and Gregorian calendars pushes Chanukah deeper into winter, through the spring, across the summer, and back into late autumn. But that can never happen.

The Torah requires that the Jewish holidays stay in their proper seasons. In particular, Passover must be celebrated in the spring (according to Deuteronomy 16:1). Long before Chanukah migrates across the seasons, the Hebrew calendar will have to be revised to keep Passover in the spring. When that happens, Chanukah will be locked in place, never to find itself coinciding with Thanksgiving again.

So, enjoy the convergence now and for the last time ever. Make the first day of Chanukah this year a unique opportunity to remember that the miracle of the first day is the miracle of saying, "Thank you," to a Source beyond us all.

This is the sermon I am delivering tonight at Temple Beit HaYam in Stuart, Florida.

On the morning of September 11, 2001, like millions of other people, I first heard the news of two airplanes flying into the towers of the World Trade Center in New York. My wife and I huddled around the television set, with our not-quite-three-year-old child. We stayed there for much of the rest of the day, watching the horrifying images, worrying about the people we knew in New York City. Were they okay? How had they been affected?

As I look around this room, I know that everyone here remembers that day and knows exactly where they were when those towers fell down. Where were you that day? What did you do, and how did you feel on that day?

Just before noon on January 28, 1986, I was rehearsing a play in the Theater Arts building at Oberlin College. I heard from a friend that there had been an accident. I watched on a small television in the department office to see images of the Space Shuttle Challenger exploding just a minute after launch. I tried to imagine the experience of the astronauts trapped in the explosion. When that became too painful, I stopped and just cried.

As I look around this room, I know that most of the people here remember that day and knows where they were when the Challenger exploded. Where were you? What did you do, and how did you feel?

On the morning of November 22, 1963, my mother and grandmother took me with them on a trip to a dress shop in Manhattan. While they were in a changing room, my mother heard commotion outside and knew something was wrong. She heard a woman say that the President had been shot. Immediately, my mother, grandmother and I went back to the apartment and spent the next three days watching the news, sobbing along with the rest of the country. I have no memory of that day, exactly fifty years ago today. As I look around this room, though, I know that many of you do remember that day and know where you were when President Kennedy was shot. Where were you? What did you do, and how did you feel?

Each of these moments from the past half century was a moment of trauma — for our country and for the individuals who experienced them. Our world was turned upside down and shattered. At some level, a feeling of security that we had grown used to was taken away from us — the safety of our nation from attack within its borders, the pride we felt in our nation’s space program and our ability to reach out into space, the reassuring smile of a handsome young president whose smile sang of Camelot. All of that can be taken away in an instant leaving us feeling bereft, disoriented, and pained to imagine how the world will ever feel the same again.

Such moments can destroy us. They can make us sink into despair and withdrawal. However, they also can be moments of transformation that allow us to become better than we thought we could be.

Just after 9/11, it seemed like we would never be the same again. Some people felt that, if there are people in the world who hate us so much, we should not waste our time engaging them in any way. We should just let our bombs blow them out of existence. Some people said that. Some still do. But, as a society, we have decided that we can do better. The painful lesson of 9/11 has been that we must not put our heads in the sand and use our military strength as a substitute for thoughtful and open-eyed engagement. We must seek ways to create peace, not just war.

There was a moment after the Challenger disaster in which we did slip into despair. We grounded our space program for 32 months of investigation, recrimination and sorrow. Some said that the price for exploring space was just too high, both in dollars and in lives. Some said we should stick to more practical and earthbound pursuits. Some still do. But, as a nation, we have decided that we can do better. This past Monday, I stood in my driveway to watch the Maven spacecraft launch from the John F. Kennedy Space Center to explore the martian atmosphere. NASA now projects that manned flights to the International Space Station from U.S. soil will begin again in 2017. We have not stopped dreaming of the stars.

The Kennedy assassination was, in some ways the most traumatic experience of all during my lifetime. Adlai Stevenson said presciently at the time that, “All of us..... will bear the grief of his death until the day of ours.”

The Kennedy assassination, too, might have been a moment in which America could have given up on its dreams. President Kennedy had stirred the country to hopes of Camelot and a better society. After his murder, it would have been easy to allow the spirit that Kennedy represented to be crushed.

In some ways, it was. After the assassination, we became a bit embarrassed by the naivety of our talk of building a “great society.” Our politics became more crude and cynical. We began talking about foreign and domestic policies that were “realistic” and that “satisfied our narrow interests,” instead of talking about our ideals and reaching for our highest aspirations. A decade after Kennedy’s death, we thought we had hit the bottom when Watergate taught us just how low the politics of cynicism could take us. However, another part of the truth of the past half century is that we have made some of our greatest progress through our determination not to let Kennedy’s murder also become the death of the dream he embodied. Lyndon Johnson got Congress to pass the Civil Rights Act, largely as a tribute to President Kennedy. We did put a man on the moon in 1969, just as President Kennedy told us we should. President Reagan’s declaration, “Mr. Gorbochov, tear down this wall,” contains an unmistakable echo of Kennedy’s call, “Ich bin ein Berliner.” And the very idea of electing the first African-American president has its roots in Kennedy’s determination to end legal barriers faced by Black Americans, once and for all.

When painful, disorienting, gut-wrenching tragedies come into the life of our nation, or into our own personal lives, there is always the temptation to withdraw and despair. Inevitably, tragic losses do affect us and they do scar us in ways that are difficult to understand until long after the fact. But they are also a moment to reassess ourselves and to rededicate ourselves to the things we believe in.

This week marks another American anniversary. One hundred and fifty years ago this week, Abraham Lincoln stood at Gettysburg and gave one of the most memorable speeches in U.S. history. He said, “It is for us the living … to be dedicated here to the unfinished work…” Lincoln spoke, “From these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion — that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain — that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom — and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

Lincoln speech came at another moment of trauma, standing upon land that was still blood-stained from a horrifying battle. He used the occasion as a moment — not of despair — but of transformation.

He said that this nation was “conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.” Was that actually true in 1776? Historians are doubtful. Few of the signers of the Declaration of Independence had any thought that the United States would be a nation that regarded equality as one of its founding principles. All of them were men. Most of them were aristocrats. Many of them were slave owners. Yet, 87 years after the founding of this nation, Lincoln created a new American identity built on the ideal of equality for all.

Tragedy and trauma scar us. They can make us doubt ourselves. They can make us wonder whether our dreams were too lofty or too unrealistic. Sometimes — as we have seen in recent history — they make us scale back our expectations. But the higher call, as Lincoln wrote 150 years ago, is to allow tragedy to become the foil against which we resolve to transform ourselves for the better.

That is also the story of Joseph in this week’s Torah portion. Joseph, the favorite son who was thrown into the pit and sold into slavery by his own brothers never once in the story fell into despair. Even after circumstances placed him in the dungeon, he looked for ways to transform his situation up from the depths, all the way to the heights.

Today marks a dark day in the history of our country. It is one that tests our resolve and makes us wonder whether we have tried to do too much and whether our dreams have been too lofty. If you have been around long enough to remember the last fifty years, you can also be optimistic enough to hope for the best in the next fifty. If your years, like mine, fall short of remembering fifty years, let your gaze be extended even further forward.

We can overcome all kinds of sorrow in our private lives and in the life of our nation. We can be better — as individuals and as a society — than our regrets and our pain would ever allow. We can climb higher and aspire to greater achievements when we release ourselves from self-doubt and fear and allow ourselves to remain committed to the values of peace, discovery and hope.

Stability is one of life's pleasant misconceptions. Our minds are endlessly capable of convincing us that we live in an unchanging world. We comfort ourselves with routines that lead us to believe that the world is constant from day to day.

It is, of course, all a grand illusion. Nothing stays the same. The universe is in constant motion around us, and our lives are all in a perpetual state of flux. Some of it is growth, some of it decay, and some is just random movement and variation. We are ever changing.

Most of the time, we don't notice. It is only in those times of upheaval that we open our eyes, look around, and ask, "What happened? When did everything change?"

Jacob had such a moment of realization. It turned his understanding of himself and of his world upside-down.

From before his birth, Jacob had been engaged in a power struggle with his twin brother, Esau. The boys wrestled in Rebecca's belly, so much so that she cried out in pain, "If so, why do I exist?" (Genesis 25:22). Striving with Esau was just part of what defined Jacob's identity — it was part of his stable understanding of himself. That is who he was when he earned the name Jacob, which means "heel," by grasping onto Esau's heel when they were born, trying to beat his brother to be first out of the womb. It was who he was when he got Esau to sell him his birthright for a bowl of red lentil stew.

This also was Jacob when he tricked his blind father into giving him the blessing intended for Esau. However, Jacob had not noticed over the years that his brother was reaching a breaking point. It was only when Jacob finally took from Esau the only thing he had left that marked him as the favorite son that Jacob's world turned upside-down. Enraged, Esau threatened to kill Jacob, and the younger brother had to run away to save his life. He had not seen it coming.

This week's Torah portion (Vayeitzei) begins with the words: "Jacob left Beer-sheba, and set out for Haran" (Genesis 28:10). Jacob was running to escape his past, trying to get away from what had seemed a stable reality. He had always been at odds with Esau, but now he noticed what a volatile situation he had created for himself. Suddenly, his life was changed and would never be the same again. On the road, he spent the night on a hilltop and fell asleep using a rock as a pillow.

Jacob had a dream that night in which he had a vision of a world that is constantly changing. Angels stood at the top of a ladder and at its foot. He saw the angels "going up and coming down" (Genesis 28:12). It was an image of the universe as it truly is — constantly in motion, constantly changing, always in flux, with God standing at the top of the perpetual motion ladder.

Jacob awoke and realized the sanctity of his new insight. When he resumed his journey, he was no longer just running away from his brother, he also was heading toward his next destination. The text tells us, "Jacob resumed his journey and came to the land of the Easterners" (Genesis 29:1). He noticed that, in life, every departure is also an arrival. We are all creatures in motion, always departing from the past as we head to the future, always becoming something different than we were a moment before.

That has been a theme in my life in the past few weeks. As some readers of this blog know, I announced to Temple Beit HaYam last month that I will be leaving the congregation at the end of June. I am currently in a process of seeking a new spiritual home and a new path to walk in life. The process has put me on a hilltop from which I am taking a big-picture view of my life, noticing the constant motion, feeling the flow of the angels that interrupt the useful illusion of life's stability.

I find myself, once again, saying goodbye and hello simultaneously. I am keenly aware of motion away and motion toward. My eyes are newly open to the ways in which my life is turned upside-down.

It is hard, and sometimes sad, to begin the process of leaving a place that has meant so much to me. It is exciting and anxiety provoking to encounter new possibilities, to explore possible futures, and to imagine the next step of the journey. Like Jacob, I am looking back over my shoulder at what I leave behind, looking forward to what is to come, and noticing God's presence standing over it all.

I also am reminded that this is the nature of life. We always are changing, growing, becoming. Those angels are always marching up and down the ladder. Life is a series of many new births and many small deaths. Growth and decay. Evolution and flow. This is who we are. I am grateful for the chance to notice, and for the way that life intermittently reveals its wonders.

Welcome

This blog is about living a joyful Jewish life and bringing joy to synagogues and the Jewish community. Join the conversation by commenting on posts and sharing your experiences. For more on the topic, read the First Post.